Blood and Steel
by EnricoDandolo
Summary: Tullius was a legion man, of the old school, and had joined up in days when recruits had been sharper, officers more gallant and men ruled over elves instead of the other way around. Sometimes he wondered if he was getting too old for this shit.


I've always been told not to waffle, or ramble, or go off on tangents, so I waffled, rambled and went off on tangents. Enjoy and leave a review if you please.

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Sometimes, Tullius wondered if he was getting too old for this shit. For thirty years, he had served under the banners now, and at night, when the cold winds of Skyrim and the rock-hard bed he called his own made him long for his native Anvil, he could feel every single one of them in his bones. Every day of forced marching, every old war wound, every tough decision. He had always considered himself a hardy man – every inch the soldier, steeled at Arenthia, at Red Ring, at the twin battles of Bronzecrest and Radah, and bred from a family that had seen every generation serve in the legions since before the days of Tiber Septim.

Then he had come to Skyrim, damnable, beautiful country. In his letters to his wife, which were as curt and cool as their relationship, he praised the natural beauty of the old kingdom: now, that the proverbial dragon had flown from peak to lofty peak, he found it easier to see. Whether it was the frozen wastes of Winterhold and the Pale, the rough and inhospitable tundra of Whiterun and Eastmarch or the dense forests of Falkreath and the Rift, he found much to write about. Privately, he thought that a proper country was not supposed to be this diverse, this varied: it was as if someone had taken a continent and pushed it together.

So much for the country. Now if only one could civilise it! But Tullius suspected that, just as wild and untamed as the land was, so were the native Nords. Whereas his letters home were brief and to the point, there was much he had to say about Skyrim's people when discussing their latest antics in the war room. Between their petty squabbles and the ubiquitous battleaxes, Tullius noted every time he had to intervene in a conflict between the Nords' kings – er, 'jarls' – it was a wonder they had not yet eradicated themselves, let alone given birth to Tiber Septim.

Which, he supposed, explained why the Nords were so fiercely protective of their sole great civilising accomplishments. Tullius was a legion man, of the old school, and had joined up in days when recruits had been sharper, officers more gallant and men ruled over elves instead of the other way around. As such, he worshipped Talos as keenly as the next man – though, ultimately, his sole goddess was 'the legion' – but even so the fervour of the local Nords was disturbing. Their kinsmen living in Cyrodiil would have killed for the right to worship the man-god as openly as them, without fear of persecution or punishment in all but the most extreme cases. When he had broken through the siege of Solitude at the onset of the rebellion, and had to prepare for the arrival of the delegation from the Thalmor, Tullius had discovered that next to every house in the city had its own Talos shrine, from the halls of the Blue Palace all the way down to the lowest hovel.

He could not deny that it was grating to have to order his men to smash the rudimentary battleaxe symbols the locals had constructed as shrines for the god of the legion, but he would also be the first to argue that it was entirely necessary. Had there been a rebellion down in Cyrodiil, where the Thalmor had agents in every major city, where the kind of behaviour that bought you a mead here in Solitude could get you burned at the stake by an imperial bureaucracy that was powerless to defend its people? No! Because in Cyrodiil, people understood what was at stake, and knew that worshipping Talos silently in their hearts instead of publicly in the temples was a small price to pay for the continued existence of the empire, of the races of man, and – according to the eggheads – even Mundus itself. And that, while the agents of the Thalmor spent themselves in a mad wild chase for careless Talos worshippers, the empire could rebuild, fortify, arm itself for the war that was to come.

But Tullius remembered his outrage when, as a young praefect, still recovering from the wounds he had sustained at Red Ring, he had heard the terms of the White-Gold Concordat proclaimed in the streets of ruined Skingrad. Perhaps, he considered, for all that they had been the first humans in Tamriel, the Nords were yet a younger people than the Cyrodiils.

He _was_ growing too old for this, Tullius thought, as he re-read the letter before him. Calling it a letter was an understatement – it was written on finest vellum, began with an invocation of the Nine and a full listing of his titles. All nine jarls of Skyrim had affixed their seals, even Queen Elisif, to his great annoyance, as had the acting grandmaster of the Blades, and even several of his own legates. _In the name of … bid you, General Marcus Iunius Tullius, Knight of the Imperial Dragon, &c. &c. … Hrothgar in the year two hundred and two of the Fourth Era …_

With a scowl, he scrunched up the parchment and swept it off the table. The heavy wax seals clattered and shattered as they hit the ground. The assembled legates, Rikke, Caesennius, Duilis, Cipius, Admand and Telendas, watched him impassively. The nerve of that woman! After everything they had accomplished! "You, Adventus!," Tullius bellowed. "Did you know of this?"

The legate of the twenty-ninth stood a bit straighter. "No, sir. I was not approached about this." _But would you have?,_ Tullius wondered. He had always known Caesennius as a trustworthy, loyal and competent officer. But then again, he had thought the same about the others – Fasendil. Skulnar. Hrollod. Tituleius. All of them had signed the letter underneath the Dragonborn and the jarls, and all of them had failed to report in. "What about the rest of you?," Tullius asked the others. "Are you trying to tell me none of you were asked to, what, chip in?"

The Dark Elf, Sevan Telendas, cleared his throat. His voice was all the raspier for it. "Sir, I was approached by Legate Hrollod, who sent me a letter dated to the fifth of last month asking me to join the Dragonborn. I only received it the day before your summons reached me, and had no time to reply or send word ahead."

 _Which means you're still hedging your bets,_ Tullius grimly thought as most of the other legates professed similar tales. "Well, should they contact you again, I trust you'll know what to reply. This is treason, men, plain and simple. I don't know what the Dragonborn is thinking, but if she believes I'll let her tear the land apart yet again, she's in for a surprise."

"Does that mean you're not considering her offer, sir?," Rikke asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tullius scowled. "I expected better from you, legate. I thought you Nords honoured your oaths. May I remind you all that each and every one of you has sworn undying loyalty to the emperor?"

"Emperor Titus is dead," Admand pointed out, as if he didn't know that. Now that had been a disaster, though at least Tullius could wash his hands of it. Even so, needless to say, the newly-appointed regency council had not been overly happy to see a resurgence of the Dark Brotherhood, the dismemberment of the Penitus Oculatus, and the assassination of a sovereign all happen under his watch. "Our oath was to him. Prince Attrebus …"

" _Emperor_ Attrebus II," Tullius sharply corrected the legate. "May the Eight watch over him."

"Of course, sir. Emperor Attrebus is … young. Sickly, and reclusive. Nothing like his late grandfather. It will be years until he can govern on his own, if ever. The way things have been going with the Dominion … we don't have that sort of time. And, well … there hasn't been a Dragonborn on the Ruby Throne in two centuries."

 _Of course_ , he thought, _that's what this is about._ His legates were all sensible people – they respected and admired the Dragonborn as a sister-in-arms and a true hero, of the old 'screaming barbarian' school, but that was clearly not their reason for joining her rebellion. And the Dragonborn as a leader? The woman's military experience consisted of running at her enemies and hitting them with large sharp objects. The Dragonborn, if anything, was to be a symbol, a memorial to the glory days of the Septims.

Tullius scoffed. "And what use would she be there? Wars aren't won by shouting, woad-painted warrior-heroes. They're won by the blood and steel of Colovian legionnaires and their commanders, trained and drilled in the arts of war. You – these jarls of Skyrim – would start yet another civil war, make the empire bleed, and for what? To place a symbol on the Ruby Throne? The Dragonborn is a great woman, I won't dispute that, but she's bloody damn well not Tiber Septim reborn! You all would do well to remember that!"

"Sir."

With a deep sigh, Tullius shook his head. "Out with you, get back to work. Prepare your legions. If the Dragonborn wants war, we'll give it to her. Adventus, take two tent groups and go to the Blue Palace. Make sure Elisif understands to whom she owes her throne and her allegiance. Rikke, stay."

With stiff salutes, the legates filed out of the war room, leaving Tullius and Rikke alone. "You realise they're likely to flock to the Dragonborn's banners," she pointed out. "They answered your summons out of courtesy, and out of respect."

"I am their commanding officer," he grumbled. "Placed above them by imperial appointment. They swore to follow me. You should think they'd remember that."

"And that is why they came to you, sir. They wanted to see if you would accept the Dragonborn's offer."

"And if I had?"

"They'd have followed you into Oblivion itself."

He scowled. They'd done that once, and much good had it done them. Not the Thalmor had broken the legion's back, Mehrunes Dagon had. "And what of you?," he asked his Legata Prima. "You're a Nord. Will you also be joining the Dragonborn when she calls?" Eight knew he had come to rely on Rikke.

She closed her eyes, appearing to consider the question. "Sir, if I may speak freely?"

"Go ahead."

"Then with all respect, sir, compared to the Dragonborn, you're not exactly the most inspiring person. You're boneheaded, chauvinistic, arrogant, unintentionally rude, intentionally rude, and generally unpleasant company."

Well, that stung. She almost sounded like his wife. Tullius recognised that he was not the most … sociable of people, and he often had trouble empathising with others. He tried to make up for that with immaculate politeness, for instance, he knew how to properly address a knight-bachelor who was also a second cousin once removed of the emperor and an Elder Councillor, and how many people could say that of themselves? "I'm also the person writing your performance reports," he dryly commented.

Rikke ignored his quip. "And still, sir, when all's said and done? You defeated Ulfric, in the field and in person, when no one else could. And unlike other commanders I've served under, you actually care for your men. In all the time I've been with the Legion, this is the first campaign I've had in which I didn't see a single man without boots or rations, and as far as the civilians are concerned, they could scarcely wish for a gentler occupation. Any other commander I've served under would have broken out the old punishments – crucifixion, burnings, decimation, the works. There's a thing to be said for the headsman's axe, in comparison. And sure, we all did our part in planning the campaign, but when it comes down to it? I think you're a damned great commander, sir, no matter your personal failings. And frankly, I think you're the best weapon the empire has in the coming war." Rikke took a deep breath. "So … yeah. I stand with you, general, and so do my men. Whether that is for or against the Dragonborn is for you to decide."

Tullius swallowed, hard. That … had not been what he'd expected. He'd like to think that he knew where Rikke stood, but after the other legates had betrayed their oaths … well, he had always been a suspicious bastard. "Appreciate it," he gruffly said to the map on the table. "Dismissed."

"Sir." Saluting stiffly, Rikke left the room.

He called for his batman to heat up some of Mistress San's spiced wine, which while not made the way he was used to, at least was good against the cold. As he sat at his desk and drank, Tullius began looking over maps of the Velothi Mountains. The Elder Council had asked him to draw up plans for an invasion of Morrowind, though he was not sure how to accomplish the task with the resources allotted to him. Even so, his mind was not in the task, and soon he found himself staring into space, sipping on his wine.

Well … that was it, then. They'd won the civil war, decisively and convincingly, brought Skyrim back into the fold. And now, he had maybe lost up to nine of the ten legions under his command, including one of the original two he had marched north from Cyrodiil, the IV _Red Diamond_. Under-strength as they were, and lacking training and experience as they did, the loss was painful. How many legions were left? Tullius knew that even now, young Attrebus II commanded over more legions than any of his predecessors on the Ruby Throne ever had, but he also knew that a modern legion was maybe a tenth the size of those of Tiber Septim's days. That few legionnaires were still trained as extensively as they once had been in the basics of proper soldiering – marching, the building of roads and fortifications, sieging, and the seven hundred and fifty-four drill commands that had once been in common use on the field of battle. The soldiers Tullius had to work with – well. He was lucky if he could get the raw Nord recruits to march in step, preserving their strength, at a quick pace, much less perform the intricate manoeuvres that had made the Colovian legions famous. The foundation of hardened veterans he had assigned to each of the eight newly-raised legions had been diluted and weakened by the influx of fresh meat.

But the lack of training also meant his men were easy to replace. Tullius did not like using the draft, it incensed the people and fostered discord in the ranks, but if it was all he had to work with, then so be it. What hurt more was the loss of the legates, both on a strategic and a personal level. He had hand-picked all of them from the officers of the IV _Red Diamond_ and XII _Hammer_ legions, all of them battle-hardened, competent commanders. He would not refer to them as his friends – fraternisation never brought anything but trouble – but Tullius could not help but feel responsible for them, and proud of their accomplishments. They might not be his friends, but they were his children.

Finishing his wine, he tried to have another look at the maps. A joint push from Cheydinhal and Riften would be needed, that much was clear, but which forces were to do the pushing? His thoughts returned to the Dragonborn's letter. Carefully, Tullius picked it up, flattened the crumbled vellum on the table. _We, Dragonborn, offer you Our hand in friendship and alliance, and invite you to take command of Our legions in service to your true and rightful empress; and we, the undersigned Jarls and Thanes of Old Skyrim, do implore you to join our righteous cause …_ The nerve! A bunch of oathbreakers, that was what they were, faithless dogs. He'd put an end to their insolence.

With shaky hands, he reached for paper and quill, penned a quick note to the Elder Council and the lords-regent. If he was to defend Skyrim against a new insurrection, a war that would unite former Stormcloaks and imperial mutineers, he'd need reinforcements … His quill halfway from the inkpot to the paper, he hesitated. He'd asked the capital for reinforcements before, when Titus II had still lived, and never received more than words. To the empire, still reeling from the Great War, Skyrim was a sideshow. Another war, so soon after the last? There would be no support from Cyrodiil until the Dragonborn and her rebel were already at the gates of Bruma. He'd have to work with what he had.

And that … even being optimistic about counter-mutinies in the rebel legions and returning to the banners, he didn't have the numbers to effectively lead any sort of campaign. The best he could do would be holding on to Solitude and possibly Markarth, but considering the Dragonborn's track record at Shouting down the gates of fortified cities … No. There'd be no defending Skyrim. But if he acted quickly, he could take Rikke's XII _Hammer_ and whatever other legions remained loyal, if any, and break through the ring of hostile holds and cross into Cyrodiil. So long as he could save his men and rendezvous with the legions in Colovia, he could mount a defence of Cyrodiil. Once there, there was a good chance he would be court-martialled for abandoning Skyrim without imperial sanction, but he'd have to take that chance. If worst came to worst, he'd been thinking about retiring to his vineyard on the Gold Coast for a while now. Still, Tullius thought with a pang of guilt, that would cost Rikke the promotion she had more than earned over the past year.

He glanced down at the sheet of paper before him. His hovering quill had left several large inkblots on it. Still, he had to at least inform the higher-ups of the Dragonborn's declaration of rebellion – and just when he had finished writing _To my most serene and mighty prince and sovereign, Titus, by the grace of Akatosh emperor of all Tamriel …_ , Tullius recognised his mistake. Muttering a curse, he threw the botched letter aside, rested his head in his hands. Part of him knew that he had to set up a new letter, properly addressed, this time, prepare orders, try and arrange for some semblance of organisation. But in the end, he had no idea whom to address his letter to.

Tullius had only met the new emperor once, when he had still been Prince Attrebus, at the vigil for his father, the late crown prince. They'd exchanged a few words – Tullius could barely recall their content. He did, however, remember that Attrebus had done half of his portion of the vigil sitting in a folding chair, and that he'd excused himself from attending the funeral proper due to his ill health. Apart from that? He seemed to vaguely remember that his wife's cousin had been the young prince's sword master, and had at one point bitterly complained about the heir to the throne's lack of interest in any sort of manly pursuit. Apparently he was enrolled in the Arcane University, but his attendance was spotty, to say the least. Tullius scowled at these thoughts. The empire had always had its share of bad rulers – that was unavoidable. And maybe it was too early to judge, but Tullius could understand the rebels' grievances. After Titus II, who, while defeated, had been monarch of the same cloth as some of the greats – Uriel VII, Titus I – Attrebus II must come as a disappointment. And already there was concern, not least in the Elder Council, of what such a monarch could possibly do in the wars to come?

 _But you can't just decide to declare yourself empress and raise an army,_ Tullius vehemently thought. _That's just not how things are_ done. Except, evidently, that's how they _had_ been done, and that was how Tiber Septim and Titus I Mede had established their dynasties. The empire, in all of its iterations, had always been built on the back of the legions. In peacetime, the legions built, they protected, they carried the law of the Ruby Throne into the darkest corners of Tamriel. And in war – in war, the empire rose and fell with its legionnaires. No, clearly, the Dragonborn _could_ raise and army, march on Cyrodiil, claim the throne. She was in good company, from St. Alessia in the First Era, to Reman I in the Second, to Tiber Septim in the Third and Titus I in the Fourth. Until the Oblivion Crisis and the fall of the Septims, it was true, the throne had always been sat and the Amulet had always been worn by the blood of a Dragonborn. Maybe it was her right to contest the throne, and maybe today marked the dawn of the Fifth Era of Tamriel …

 _But if the empire falls here, it might also be its last._ He did not put much stock in the eggheads who prophesied the unravelling of Mundus, the destruction of all mankind, should the Thalmor triumph. People had always foretold doom and blood, and every time they did, men had beaten the odds. When the Staff of Chaos had been sought by Jagar Tharn during the Simulacrum, a mortal hero had beaten him to it and defeated the usurper. When the Gates of Oblivion opened, mortal heroes had lit the Dragonfires, and entered a new covenant with Akatosh. And when the dragons rose, and the Nords trembled in fear of their World-Eater, a mortal hero had … well … she'd clearly done something, given that the dragons no longer attacked his patrols. But Tullius recognised that there was more to the end of the world than such metaphysical dribble. The empire was law, it said as much right there on the coins. And the law was sacred. From Daggerfall to Archon, from Necrom to Sunhold, the banner of the dragon had brought the light of civilisation to the barbarians, and the fortitude to defend it to the degenerate cultures. Terrible indeed had the Interregnums been, when that flame had flickered but faintly in Cyrodiil, the heart of Tamriel, and of all Nirn.

And besides, wouldn't it be a shame to see the empire fall to an axe-swinging, screaming, woad-painted savage after it had successfully held the line against Akaviri Dragonguard, Dark Elf deities, the legions of Oblivion itself and the onslaught of the Dominion? No, never. Tullius would sooner fall on his own sword than allow the empire to fall once more. _But by all accounts, Tiber Septim was brought up like that, and look what a fine fellow the legion made of him._

" _I stand with you,"_ Rikke had told him. And Tullius stood with the empire, as he always had, as was his duty and his honour. But so did the rebels, in their mind. That the Dragonborn would likely be a better empress than Attrebus was clear, but did that also make her more legitimate? _I'm thinking in circles,_ Tullius gruffly scolded himself. _You're a legionnaire, man. Think like one. Straightforward and true._

Maybe this country was getting to him.

He glanced up, out of the window at the city of Solitude. There was scarcely a sign of the unrest that would soon befall the empire. It was far too beautiful an evening for this sort of thing. _There will be blood,_ he told himself. _You managed to keep the civil war clean, because Ulfric had to present himself as a honourable patriot, but the emperor will have no such compulsions when his very survival is at stake._ The Dragonborn was a wild card, if all the rumours were true, she was as much of a villain as she was a hero – add to that the claims that her vampire companion had ensorcelled her, and you had a recipe for disaster. In Tullius' experience, however, the vampire might actually turn out to be a calming influence. But one way or another …

When the war with the Dominion finally came, it had to be on the empire's terms, and they had to be strong. Even if the thought of subjugating Alinor once again was fanciful, they had to at least throw the agents of the Thalmor out of Cyrodiil, so they could regain control of Hammerfell, and Morrowind. After that, with the northern provinces restored, there were a few things one could try – attempt to outbreed the elves, inspire rebellion in Valenwood and Elsweyr … But first, they had to get there. And, as much as Tullius hated to admit it, under Attrebus, that seemed unlikely.

He deeply sighed. The more he thought about it, the more tempted he was to accept the Dragonborn's offer. Legate Admand's argument – that their oath no longer bound them, nay, obliged them to aid her cause – was a seductive one, no doubt about that.

Tullius was a legion man, through and through. He had bled for the empire in six campaigns and eighteen pitched battles, and had the scars to show it. He had earned the _corona muralis_ by mounting the dragon banner on the battlements of Arenthia in the last days of the Great War, and the _corona graminea_ for his relief of the VII _Devourer_ at Hoongan's Field. Had the emperor not been murdered, his victory over the Stormcloak might have earned him a triumph upon his return to the Imperial City. The legion was his life, his goddess, and the legion was the empire. _When Titus Mede took to the field against Thules the Gibbering, would he have done the same if Thules had been a Septim?_

He did not trust the Dragonborn. Not her intentions, not her means, not the company she kept. But, Nine preserve him, she might be the empire's only hope. And if saving the empire, saving law and civilisation and the rule of man, required the fall of the Medes after two centuries of rightful rule …

Then Tullius saw himself forced to pay. Grinding his teeth, he called for his batman to bring more of the good vellum. If the Dragonborn wanted his sword, he had a few conditions first.


End file.
